


After the War (where Holmes women rule the world)

by aria_dc_al_fine



Series: Sherlyn Holmes - a Tale of Edwardian era [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Downton Abbey AU, Edwardian Period, F/M, Gen, Genderbending, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aria_dc_al_fine/pseuds/aria_dc_al_fine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Also known as: Sherlyn is a Late-Bloomer)</p><p>“For goodness’ sake,” Lady Howard-Holmes sounded indignant, “I am merely a war widow of a man from the House of Lords.”</p><p>Miss Holmes snorted. “She is the British Government, when she’s not too busy managing both her late husband’s estate and our father’s estate. Heavens forbid that our glorious Empire’s future is actually decided by one woman. Good evening, Mylene. Tell Quinn to get her nose out of my affairs,” Miss Holmes began to stalk away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the War (where Holmes women rule the world)

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Downton Abbey for this.
> 
> Un-betaed and not Brit-picked. I'm sorry. If you find any expressions era-inappropriate, please let me know.

There was a knock on the door. “Lady Howard-Holmes.” [1]

A fair-skinned woman in a grey dress looked up from the letter she was writing on her desk, wavy auburn strands hanging about her face. Mylene placed her fountain pen on its holder before tucking her fringe behind her ears. “Please come in.”

A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome young brunet in a dark brown tweed suit entered the study. “Milady,” he greeted.

“Alexander,” Mylene acknowledged her secretary. “What’s happened?”

 “It’s your sister, Milady,” Alexander declared, “Lady Quinn has paid you a visit.”

Mylene was immediately alarmed. It was not in her siblings’ nature to make social calls. “Well,” she rose to her feet and brushed the ankle-length brocaded dress she’d adorned down her long, long legs. “I shall attend to her immediately.”

Alexander accompanied his master (for she was worthy enough to be his master) down the flight of stairs and opened the door of the living room for her.

Inside the luxuriously decorated room, sat a gorgeous young woman in her early twenties. Her curly dark hair had been cut short, the artfully messy bob framing her defined jaws exquisitely. She had one of the loveliest faces any man could have laid his eyes on, a pair of spectacles perched on her thin long nose, long eyelashes casting shadows on high cheekbones. The colour of her large eyes was dark, indeterminable, and irresistibly mysterious. It was hard to imagine that the two women you have been introduced to were related, yet they were.

(Lucky Quinn Holmes was attractive enough for anyone to overlook the way she dressed. It wasn’t that she dressed shabbily, no, her clothes were the finest tailors', Mylene made sure of that, but she tended to favour colours that were…strange.)

“Sister,” Quinn laid down her tea and stood to give her eldest sibling the customary hug and kiss on the cheek. Quinn might have a quirky fascination with machineries, but she could still be counted on to exhibit proper manners. No, Quinn wasn’t the sister Mylene was worried about, constantly.

"It has been a while,” Mylene opened the conversation once they were settled on the sofas and one of the servants had fixed her tea. “How’s…?” she faltered. Mylene was never sure what that man meant to Quinn, and whether it was appropriate for her to inquire his well-being through Quinn.

“Bond’s fine,” Quinn spoke nonchalantly, “He’s in St. Petersburg. Or Hong Kong.”

Mylene raised an eyebrow.

“One of those exotic places,” she waved her hand dismissively, but her profuse blinking gave her away. “He can’t always tell me in his letters or telegrams. Anyways, this visit is not about me,” she leaned forward, “it’s about Dear Sister Sherlyn.”

Of course it’s about Sherlyn. Mylene rolled her eyes before the sisters shared a smirk. Oh, Quinn had given the family her share of grief, what’s with shacking up with a man who was in essence a ticking bomb (a gorgeous one, but still). Everyone worried about Sherlyn the most, though.

“What about her?” Mylene placed her tea on the table. She wouldn’t want to spill anything over the course of the announcement.

“A new roommate’s moved in her flat at Mrs Hudson’s,” Quinn began, “Do you know about that already?”

“It may be in next week’s report.” Quinn worked in the Secret Service Bureau [2]. Mylene had her sources of information, but Quinn was sometimes faster. The family connection was certainly useful. “What about her?” Mylene questioned.

“Him,” Quinn corrected, and good grief, Mylene had a headache already. “Doctor John Hamish Watson, former Captain, attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Sounds complicated,” Mylene narrowed her pale eyes.

Quinn shrugged, in a way that said ‘you haven’t heard half of it’. “He’s injured. A limp, from battles in The Great War. Macedonia.” [3]

Mylene sighed in despair. “Go on.”

“She’s taken him on as her ‘personal doctor’,” Quinn continued.

Mylene snorted. “So she’s in need of one now.”

“Well, she does have a track record of drug abuse…” Quinn mentioned hesitantly.

Mylene’s expression darkened. They were quiet for a while before Mylene broke the silence. “Have we heard the worst of it?”

Quinn blinked and checked her eidetic memory. “Yes, I think that’s all.”

“Thank you,” Mylene picked up her cup again, “I’ll take it from there.”

It was Quinn’s cue to return to work. She rose to her feet and gathered her handbag. “Do keep me informed,” she gave her sister another kiss to the cheek, “And say hello to Siger and Charles for me, please.”

Mylene thought of her two lovely intelligent sons. “Sure,” she smiled, “Thank you. I hope to hear a happy announcement from you soon, Quinn.”

The bespectacled brunette ignored her.

\----------

Today had been a bizarre day for one John Hamish Watson.

First, he’d been persuaded by a tall and thin, beautiful, gorgeous, mad, _brilliant_ dark-haired woman with cheekbones that could cut through steel and full cupid-bow’s lips, who was able to deduce his whole life’s story by just one glance of her sharp blue-grey eyes – one unmarried Sherlyn Holmes – to share the tenancy of her flat at 221B Baker Street. 

Secondly, he’d been dragged across the city by the same Sherlyn Holmes, to inspect a corpse up four flights of stairs. To be promptly left behind in a flurry of (somewhat inappropriate) excitement over a serial murderer who’d made a mistake. A ‘pink’ mistake.

(Well, at least he’d met Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. He could bond with the chap over complaints on Miss Holmes, he was sure.)

Lastly, he’d been followed.

John was sure of it. He could feel _stares_ on the back of his neck. Not the kind that strangers gave you for a second (or a couple more, if they found you particularly interesting or peculiar), but intent, observing stares. And the footsteps. They matched his rhythm, slowing when he did and vice versa, light as a cat.

John was about to make a run for it (he might be a cripple but he was smart, he could lose them round the tricky alleyways) when someone stopped him.

“Doctor John Watson?” The stranger was a well-groomed man with bone structure like a model, broad and tall. He was dressed like a butler of an aristocratic household. “Could you come with me, please?” He looked at the side, where a car was apparently hovering for them. Shadows of three men were approaching John from other sides. John was trapped.

John licked his bottom lip nervously. “All right.” It wasn’t like he had a choice.

The car brought him to a factory at the fringes of the city, the surroundings unfamiliar to him. He was escorted to an empty production room, husks of equipments scattered around him, still as the dead.

Smack in the centre, stood a really tall thirty-something woman, dressed in a lavender wool jacket with fur lining and a matching long skirt like a proper Edwardian Lady, her hair perfectly coiffed. John couldn’t make the colour of her hair because her head was covered by a hat, and the lighting was dim. The factory was the kind which hadn't been powered by electricity, before it was abandoned. She was holding on to a black umbrella, leaning on the object like it was a cane.

“Please take a seat, Dr Watson,” she cocked her head, referring to the simple wooden chair in front of her.

There was only one chair.

“I’m sure you know where I live,” John blatantly ignored her invitation and ploughed on as he walked closer to her, “I can be reached by a letter.”

Now that they were face to face, John could inspect her more closely. Her hair was brownish red. She was neither slim nor an exceptional beauty (not with that beaky Roman nose or small owlish eyes, no); in fact, one could describe her as rather…unassuming. Yet there was something striking in her aura, in the way she carried herself elegantly and respectfully, that (screamed ‘the Right Honourable here!’ – or ‘Most Honourable’, even – and) commanded his attention. [4]

She showed him a plumy smile. “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlyn Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence, this place,” she gestured at the empty room. John could make out the shape of her wedding ring through her glove. “Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down.” Now, there was no mistaking that last one was an order.

“I don’t want to sit down when the lady is standing,” John took his chances. Luckily he never felt compelled to obey the aristocrats.

They had a staring match for a brief moment. “You don’t seem very frightened,” she noted.

“No offense, milady, but you don’t seem very frightening,” John countered evenly, and the woman chuckled behind her hand. “Yes,” her eyes twinkled, “the bravery of the soldier.” John wasn’t too surprised she knew his background. “Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” she mused, “what is your connection to Sherlyn Holmes?”

Finally, they were getting somewhere. “I don’t have one. I barely know her. I met her…yesterday.”

“Mmm, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with her and now you’re solving crimes together,” for goodness sake, is this Lady omniscient or something?

“Who are you?” John frowned.

“An interested party,” she answered.

“Interested in Miss Holmes, why? I’m assuming you are not friends…” John pressed.

“You’ve met her. How many friends do you imagine she has?” _Ah._ This was the first time the auburn-haired noble indicated a hint of disdain for Miss Holmes in her tone. _Should I still be a part of this?_ John thought as the woman played with the tip of her umbrella, dragging it on the floor while tapping her feet as she continued, “I’m the closest thing to a friend that Sherlyn Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?” John was curious about his (potential) roommate.

“An enemy,” she remarked.

“An enemy?” he echoed. John tried to imagine the two women in a most tedious fight over whose floral arrangement was better, but he couldn’t. He’d been to the flat. Miss Holmes had more beakers and test tubes (and questionable experiments) than dresses.

“In her mind, certainly,” now the woman looked slightly fed up as she talked about Miss Holmes. “If you were to ask her, she’d probably say her arch-enemy.” She sighed. “She does love to be dramatic.”

“Thankfully you’re above all that, milady,” John couldn’t help the sarcasm.

The woman stared at him sharply. It was disconcerting.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlyn Holmes?”  She twitched.

“Pardon me, milady…but I don’t think it’s any of your concern,” John stated bluntly. This was getting tiresome.

“It could be,” she insisted. John shook his head. “It really couldn’t.”

“If you do move into…” the woman reached for a book from her handbag, which had been hanging on her forearm. “Two hundred and twenty one ‘Bee’ Baker Street,” she continued, pronouncing the address in full, instead of ‘two two one’ like most other _commoners_ would have, “I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

“Why?” John almost snapped.

“Because you’re not a wealthy man,” she was reminding him that after the war there was a huge influx of men looking for jobs at households and businesses that had managed to move on without them, and John’s _disability_ was not in his favour.  

“In exchange for what, may I ask?” Not that John was going to say yes. He still had pride.

“Information. Nothing indiscreet…nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what she’s up to,” she offered, her facial expression animated.

“Why?” That was really the question. Why go through the dramatics? Are aristocrats these days really that _bored_?

She paused and stared into his eyes as she spoke, “I worry about her. Constantly.”

Somehow John couldn’t believe that.

“I would prefer, for various reasons, that my concerns go unmentioned,” she twirled her umbrella and brought the tip upward, her eyes on the object as she swayed it left and right, “we have what you might call a…difficult relationship.”

There was a beat.

John let out a deep breath. “No,” he stated firmly.

 She chuckled again. “But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Milady, please don’t bother,” his decision was final. Had been final for a while.

 Her chuckle rose in volume. “You’re _very_ loyal _very_ quickly.”

“Milady, I am just not interested,” his eyes met hers daringly. If they were not alone others might have scolded him for showing a noble such insolence.

She fumed, her gaze disapproving, before she referred to her trusty book once again. “’Trust issues,’ it says here.”

John’s heart stopped beating for a moment. It…couldn’t be the notes his therapist had written about him, could it? It was supposed to be confidential! “What’s that?” His throat was dry.

“Could it be you have decided to trust Sherlyn Holmes, of _all_ people?” _A woman who betrayed most if not all conventions?_ The question was implied.

“Milady, what gave you the impression that I trust her?” John challenged.

“Dr Watson, pardon me, but you don’t seem like you make friends easily.” Another correct judgment. At least after the war.

John felt uneasy in her company. He tried his hardest to project all his impatience at this woman. “How soon can our business be concluded?”

“I was hoping you can tell me,” she threw the question back at him. [5]

He stared at her, at her menacing demeanor despite her harmless appearance, before deciding that if he could live through the war, he could offend her and remain alive. He turned away.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from her,” the lady was apparently not done. And yes, Inspector Lestrade’s sergeant, Sanders, had warned him. “But I can see from your left hand that is not going to happen.”

That piqued John’s interests. He turned back. “My what?” How had his left hand given him away?

In all honesty, that should have been John’s first clue, that this female stranger could read him based on signals from his body parts. But he’d been too…distracted.

“Show me,” the request was spoken rather…almost obscenely, worsened by the infuriating wide smile the woman had on her face. John’s eyes darted to the side before he relented and took off his left hand’s glove, still keeping his distance from her.

She stepped closer to him and placed her umbrella next to her hand bag to free both her hands. When she reached out for his hand, John jerked away. “Don’t-”

She raised an eyebrow. He could almost hear her say, ‘Don’t be silly, Dr Watson.’ John breathed in before he surrendered his hand.

She didn’t apply pressure, only light touches on his wrists and fingers. He could feel scarcely feel the heat of her flesh through her leather gloves. “Remarkable,” she eventually commented as she let him have his hand back.

“What is it?” Why was she so…long-winded?

“Most people…blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars…” there she went again. “When you walk with Sherlyn Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

“What’s wrong with my hand?” he asked for her diagnosis again. And John was the doctor here (he was pretty sure this woman wasn’t). What an irony. 

She scrutinised the appendage in question. “You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it’s ‘exhaustion’ [6]. He thinks you’re haunted by memories of the war.”

This woman knew about him _too much_. How could she have gained access to his medical file? “Who on earth are you?” John’s voice was almost shaking. “How do you know that?”

“Fire your therapist,” she merely blinked, “He is grossly mistaken. You are under stress right now…and your hand is perfectly steady.”

It was a moment of revelation for John.

“You’re not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it,” her lips curled, slowly, to a smirk he'd never seen before, an unsettling image, almost. “Welcome back.”

She looked so, so pleased with herself before she finally turned around and left him alone. “It is time to choose a side, Dr Watson,” her parting words were spoken in a sing-song.

John wouldn’t say that the revelation cast away any doubts he had about living with Miss Holmes. It did, however, play a part.

\----------

John was laughing with Miss Holmes, still half in shock that he’d just murdered another human being to save a woman he’d just met yesterday, still battling the downside of adrenaline rush, when he spotted the primly-attired auburn-haired woman who’d kidnapped him earlier (though it was rather improper for a woman to still be out at this hour).

John was instantly alarmed. “Miss Holmes, that’s her, that’s the woman I was talking to you about.”

Miss Holmes didn’t falter. “I know exactly who that is.”

“So…” the woman began as they came closer, “another case solved. How very public-spirited. Though that’s never really your motivation is it?” she shrugged.

John spied Miss Holmes scanning their surroundings and became more nervous. What was she looking for? Exit routes? An army hidden under the bushes? It didn’t help that the roads were dark right now. At least the Scotland Yard men were still only a block away. Miss Holmes asked, “What are you doing here?”

“As ever, I’m concerned about you,” the woman gave Miss Holmes the same story she’d given John earlier.

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’,” Miss Holmes twitched.

“Always so aggressive. Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?” the noblewoman frowned.

John watched alertly as Miss Holmes argued, “oddly enough, no!” He hoped she wouldn't aggravate the other woman enough to harm herself.

“We have more in common than you’d like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer," the older woman spoke in disdain, "And you know how it always upset Mama.”

John furrowed his brows. _Mama?_ Is she some kind of mafia boss?

“Me? I upset her?” Miss Holmes went on, “Me? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mylene!”

John had to interrupt before he combusted from puzzlement. “No. No, wait. Mama? Who’s Mama?” ‘Mylene’ heaved a sigh as John asked.

Miss Holmes turned to him to explain, “Mother. Our mother. This is my sister, Mylene Howard-Holmes.”

John gaped.

Meanwhile, the Holmes sisters bickered more heatedly. “Putting on weight again?”

Lady Howard-Holmes looked miffed. “Losing it, in fact,” she remarked haughtily.

John needed another confirmation. “She’s your sister?”

Miss Holmes looked pained to admit the fact. “Of course, she’s my sister.”

He replayed whatever he could remember of the dialogues he’d had with Lady Howard-Holmes (now he knew for certain she was at least ‘the Right Honourable’, a Countess) and he realised… _everything falls into place now._ “So she’s not…”

“Not what?” Miss Holmes raised her fine brow.

John shook his head to himself. “…I don’t know, the boss of an organised crime group?” She did know too much.

The darker-haired of the two women smirked. “Close enough.”

“For goodness’ sake,” Lady Howard-Holmes sounded indignant, “I am merely a war widow of a man from the House of Lords.”

Miss Holmes snorted. “She is the British Government, when she’s not too busy managing both her late husband’s estate and our father’s estate.”

“It’s nothing of the sort,” the ‘mere war widow’ began, but she was interrupted. 

“No, heavens forbid that our glorious Empire’s future is actually decided by one woman. Good evening, Mylene. Tell Quinn to get her nose out of my affairs,” Miss Holmes began to stalk away.

John didn’t follow straight away. “Quinn?” 

“Our younger sister,” Lady Howard-Holmes supplied helpfully.

 _There is another one?!_ John took a deep breath. He hesitated before he decided to ask anyway. “Milady…when you say you’re concerned about her…you actually are concerned?”

“Yes, of course,” the noblewoman looked affronted as though she disbelieved that anyone would question her motive.

“I mean…it is actually a childish feud?” John felt the need to clarify.

“She’s always been so resentful,” she clucked her teeth, “you can imagine the Christmas dinners.”

“No,” John imagined it wouldn’t be a pretty sight. Miss Holmes was getting farther and farther. He needed to catch up. “Uh, milady, I would like to be excused. Good evening!”

God, what a complicated family.

And it was just the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The Howards were Earls of Carlisle. Their magnificent Castle Howard was the setting for movie Brideshead Revisited (http://queenselphie.deviantart.com/art/Castle-Howard-Stock-3-173302512). Source of information: http://historicalhussies.blogspot.com/2012/02/surnames-that-are-so-veddy-veddy.html  
> 2\. The organization that eventually would be MI5 and MI6  
> 3\. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Northumberland_Fusiliers  
> 4\. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Right_Honourable  
> 5\. The exchange between Mycroft and John had gone a lot politer here  
> 6\. Modern understanding of PSTD didn’t exist until 1970s. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Posttraumatic_stress_disorder


End file.
